Stolen Images
by fbeauchamphartz
Summary: Kurt likes to sketch people on the sly, but one of his favorite subjects finally figures him out. Skank!Kurt Dalton AU. Kurt H. Sebastian S.
1. Stolen Images

**A/N: AU assumes that Kurt and Sebastian are both the same grade. There will be three chapters total. The first two are rated teen, the last mature. Mention of Blaine, but no Klaine. No Blaine wank.**

Nobody catches the subtle movement of Kurt's eyes as he peeks over the edge of his notebook. It gives him a headache, moving his eyes back and forth so quickly, but that's how he captures his subjects without them knowing – with precisely timed darts of his observant blue eyes. The worn notebook that he uses to sketch in is almost filled, and this particular drawing has actually been done, and done-over, a hundred times, but he always finds himself adding more to it – a shadow here, a different arch to the eyebrows, a more accurate curl to the lips.

He taps the barbell piercing in his tongue against his teeth as he concentrates, not quite happy with the way he's drawn the nose, but he doesn't want to erase it again.

He might as well start the whole drawing over in that case, and he doesn't have a single piece of blank paper left.

Maybe he'll do it when he buys a new notebook after school.

He's just about finished, almost done with the shading beneath the nose, when the subject of his sketch looks up. Kurt hides his eyes, finishing the rest from memory, but when he looks up again, the green-eyed boy he has been sneaking glances at is still staring, his eyebrow raised in Kurt's direction. Kurt makes a mental note that the peak of his eyebrow isn't quite as sharp as he's rendered it, and to make changes later.

"What are you staring at, Hummel?" Sebastian barks, sitting up straight in his seat. From behind stacks of books, the librarian hisses at him to be quiet.

"Not a good Goddamned thing, Smythe," Kurt snaps back, shutting his notebook. He's about to shove the book into his messenger bag when it suddenly slips from his fingers. He looks around, trying to find where he dropped, but he hears a sarcastic, "Well, well, well, what have we here?" and knows immediately where it went.

"Hand it over, Smythe," Kurt growls, leaping to his feet and nearly tackling Sebastian to get his notebook back. But Sebastian is about an inch taller than Kurt even with Kurt wearing his thick-soled Doc Marten boots, so Sebastian easily holds it out of Kurt's reach.

"Nah," Sebastian says. "I see you bent over this thing all the time, but I also catch you looking at me, so I have a suspicion that something in here might have something to do with me."

"You must be one hell of an egotist if you think European History has anything to do with you!" Kurt snarls, making a leap to grab the notebook. He lands hard on his heels, holding a fistful of air.

"Yeah, well, I don't think they had coffee shops in 18th century Europe," Sebastian gloats, turning to a random page and showing it to Kurt.

"How do you know?" Kurt asks. "Were you there?"

Sebastian rolls his eyes at Kurt's lame retort and turns to another page.

"Nice one of hobbit boy," Sebastian comments on a sketch of Blaine, singing with the Warblers gathered around him - including himself, Sebastian notices. "And by the way, my hair isn't quite that high in the front."

"I don't know. Have you taken a good look at it? Or does the fog of hairspray you use obscure your view of the mirror?" Kurt gives up at getting his notebook back, praying Sebastian gets bored with it soon before he finds anything else.

It's at that moment that Sebastian starts flipping through the pages in earnest, his smug smile turning into a bizarre half-smirk/scowl.

"What the fu- these are all of me!" Sebastian says, looking through the book, feeling heat rise up his neck as he sees sketch after sketch of himself. "You fucking creeper!"

"Language!" the librarian scolds again, but Sebastian ignores her.

"Don't flatter yourself too much, Neanderthal," Kurt gripes. "You've got a huge head. Massive forehead. It makes you easy to draw."

Kurt makes a final effort to get the book back, reaching out an anxious hand to snatch it, but Sebastian turns his back to Kurt, examining the pictures more carefully.

He finds a sketch of himself on the lacrosse field. Something about it is … fascinating, for lack of a better term. Sebastian examines the details of his uniform – the individual stitches of the patch on his shoulder, the tears in the tape on his lacrosse stick, a cut on his lip with a bit of dried blood at the corner. The shadows made by the wrinkles on his sleeve tell Sebastian exactly what time of day this is. The despondent look on his face as he gazes across the field is not just for dramatic effect. It feels familiar. Sebastian knows this – he remembers this day. It was their first at-home meet against the Winchester Wildcats, right after Sebastian became team captain. They lost that meet, and in an adolescent way, Sebastian had felt devastated, his pride phenomenally bruised. Looking at the way Kurt has drawn the features of his face - the distant look in his eyes, the tight line of his mouth, the starting of a bruise beneath his eye where an opposing team member had checked him – Sebastian can almost feel the disappointment blossom inside him again.

Or dredge back up, since the feeling never actually faded away. He kept it, held on to it, and uses it as inspiration to ensure that his team never loses again.

"Sure," Sebastian jeers, but weakly, "draw me after the one game we _lost_." Though, to himself, Sebastian has to admit that it was a good choice, since of all the games Dalton has played and won – even championship games – this is the one he remembers the clearest.

It's the one that made the greatest impact on him.

The sketch after that is of Sebastian doodling in his Calculus book during class. He's bent over it, shielding the picture (which, if he remembers correctly, was of Blaine Anderson in a sheer camisole and rumba panties) from the eyes of the teacher passing by, the tip of his tongue caught between his teeth, his brow furrowed in concentration. On either side, Jeff and Wes peek over his arm – Wes with a judgmental frown but laughing eyes, and Jeff with his hand clamped over his mouth to keep from chortling out loud. Sebastian can almost hear Jeff's signature snort, and Wes's constant chide of, "Mature, Smythe. _Real_ mature."

But it's the last picture in the book that takes Sebastian's breath away. It shouldn't, but it does. It's an original sketch of Kurt and Sebastian together. It's set in winter, and outside, it's snowing. Sebastian is dressed in the slate blue cable-knit sweater he got for Christmas the year prior from his senile grandmother. Even though the sketch is black and white, Sebastian knows exactly what sweater it is from the negative-stitched trim along the shoulders, and the way the cowl collar never curled right (because Sebastian idiotically washed it on permanent press instead of delicate like the instructions said). Kurt has on a leather jacket, one with spikes on the shoulders that he wears when 'formal dress' is required; and the only pair of black jeans he owns that don't have any rips in them. His hair is styled up and away from his face, and his jewelry is toned down a bit – plain hoops and balls instead of that plasticky spider and skull costume jewelry crap he shoplifts from _Claire's_.

The two of them are standing beneath a sprig of mistletoe … and they're kissing.

Actually, not kissing. It's the second before the kiss – with Sebastian leaning close to Kurt, his eyes focused on Kurt's lips. Kurt is biting his lower lip between his teeth, a half-smile curling the corner of his mouth. This picture looks more developed than the others, as if Kurt spent the most time on it; tiny details (like the star tattoo behind Kurt's ear and the freckles on Sebastian's forehead) sharper, more defined. The snow in the background gives off the illusion of cold so perfectly.

This whole picture breathes, and inside it, Kurt is holding his breath.

Looking at this picture feels like reading a diary entry, something Kurt jotted down for himself that he never intended anyone else to see.

"Kurt …" Sebastian swallows down the bitter taste of regret caused by the fact that, by looking at these pictures without Kurt's permission, he's done something cruel.

He's invaded Kurt's privacy.

And he's amazed by the fact that, for some reason, he actually cares.

"Kurt," Sebastian repeats when he gets no reply from the violet-haired boy fuming behind him, "these are amaz-"

Sebastian turns to the seat where Kurt was sitting, but he and his things are gone.


	2. Found Images

**Sebastian realizes that he did something awful to Kurt by invading his privacy, and he feels guilty about it. Normal people would apologize and make amends. But if Sebastian did that, he might have to admit that he likes Kurt.**

**So instead, Sebastian decides to make a point.**

Guilt tends to make people do weird things - sometimes interesting weird things, sometimes ridiculous weird things, but weird things nonetheless.

For Sebastian, guilt makes him sign up for art class.

But Sebastian doesn't suffer guilt the way normal people do.

A regular person might feel guilty because they did something wrong and want to make amends, plain and simple.

Sebastian _did_ do something wrong. He acknowledged that he did something wrong (sort of – to himself, at least), but then decided that he didn't need to make amends.

He needed to make a point.

And that point is that Kurt Hummel isn't anything special. Sure he can draw and yes, he has talent. But tons of people draw nowadays. In fact, Sebastian happens to think that his rendition of Blaine Anderson dressed in women's lingerie turned out pretty kick ass. Maybe he can be an artist, too. And if he can be an artist, then Kurt Hummel (artist) isn't special. And if Kurt isn't special, regardless of how talented he is, then these feelings Sebastian has every time he looks at Kurt's sketches - his heart wringing itself in his chest, every image evoking an absurd deluge of emotion - is just a coincidence. Possibly appreciation, but nothing more.

It doesn't mean that Kurt moved him.

And it definitely doesn't mean that Sebastian might, in some small or insignificant way, _like_ Kurt. That he's seeing Kurt differently through his art.

Kurt is exactly the image he makes for himself. He's a troublemaker. A skank. A loser.

He is not worth Sebastian's time.

Even if Sebastian _does_ find himself following Kurt down the halls between classes.

Even if Sebastian tries to find ways of bumping into him in the lunch room.

Even if the fact that Kurt has successfully avoided Sebastian for the past week since the incident with the notebook is wearing Sebastian down just a bit, to the point where he's about to stand on his desk in French class (one of the few classes they share together) and publicly beg for Kurt's forgiveness.

So to banish any thought that Kurt might be getting to him, Sebastian signs up for art class.

He opts out of taking the classes at Dalton since he's sure Kurt must be in every single one. And, unfortunately, the classes at the local colleges are out of the question because Sebastian is applying past the deadline. He even checks the status of classes at the community college, he's _that_ desperate. But those are filled to excess, and there's a waiting list a mile long, one that, surprisingly, charm and money can't squeeze him on to. The only class remaining, the one he originally didn't want to consider, one that he would only take if he had no other choice – and he doesn't - is being held at the rec center.

The Westerville Recreation Center isn't too bad, all things considered. They have a sculpture garden, one of the biggest public libraries in the area, and the pool is cool (for a public pool). Plus, they offer tennis classes taught by retired professionals, which Sebastian can respect.

It's the principle of the thing.

He wants to be just as good, if not better than, Kurt, and Sebastian doesn't see that happening taking a rec center course.

Still, it's his only option so he has to give it a go. He's trying to prove a point, after all. And if he's right, then taking this class is just a formality.

Sebastian can be an artist.

_Anyone_ can be an artist.

Kurt isn't special.

Two weeks in, Sebastian starts to seriously regret his decision, not because he doesn't think he has talent (even though he may be starting to have one or two doubts), but because, in his opinion, the class is asinine. That's what's holding him back – not his own lack of talent, but the class. Two nights a week and one Saturday morning he spends trying to find his inner Matisse. But their teacher, Mrs. Perkins – a string-beanish creature about as tall as he, with watered-down blue eyes and white hair she dyes bright green – is only teaching them the basics, and at a snail's pace.

It's mind-numbing.

First, they learned the color wheel. Then, they practiced drawing circles –a whole damn _hour_ spent drawing nothing but frickin' circles. Then, they learned to shade said circles. Not until the following week did they even try their hand at drawing something that looked like anything, and Sebastian fooled himself into believing that they were actually getting somewhere. But by his second Saturday, the only thing he's been able to swing is a fairly decent looking pear … except it's supposed to be an orange. This class is not helping him the way he thought it would.

It may actually be making him worse.

Sebastian has no patience for this. He wants to skip to the end where he puts something down on paper that's even half as good as what Kurt drew in his notebook.

There.

He said it.

He'll settle for half.

But as far as Sebastian's concerned, this class can't get him there.

It occurs to him, with chagrin, that Kurt could, if Sebastian could convince Kurt to teach him, but wouldn't that defeat the purpose?

Sebastian has his mind made up by the end of class. He'll drop out and find something else. Maybe he doesn't need a class at all. Maybe he can find some videos on YouTube that'll do the trick. That's how Jeff learned to play the bass. What about Bob Ross? He taught hundreds of people to paint happy little trees and blissful mountains via his show on PBS.

Yeah. That's the way to go.

Just Sebastian, a sketch book, and his computer.

No fuss, no muss, and no stupid class.

He gathers his things and heads for the door.

"Goodbye, everybody. Goodbye. Rest well. Have a wonderful weekend. So, we'll see you next week, Mr. Smythe?" Mrs. Perkins manages to ask from her desk as he rushes to leave.

Sebastian stops short. He tries not to make a face. He was hoping to get away without having to explain anything. Why doesn't he just say _yes_? _Yes, he'll be back_? Does it really matter if he lies and then doesn't show up? Why does he feel he owes her an explanation? He doesn't. She's part of the reason why he's not succeeding in his endeavor. But, for some reason, he's simply not in the mood to blow her off.

"Uh, about that … I don't think I will," Sebastian admits.

"Really?" She raises a single, green-dyed eyebrow. "But you're doing so well. Your pear showed real promise."

Sebastian glares.

"Why do you want to leave?"

Sebastian sighs, masking his frustration. He's not in the mood to blow her off, but he's not in the mood for a lengthy conversation, either. "Because, to be honest, I don't feel like I'm benefitting from your methods. I mean, I understand your reasons behind teaching us the basics, but it's not really helping me achieve my goal."

She considers his words, and gives a thoughtful nod. "Hmm. Perhaps it's not. Becoming an artist is a very personal journey. My way may not be the path you need to take."

"Hmm, so true, so true," Sebastian agrees. He hopes that that will be her final word on the matter, and he can haul ass out of there.

"Maybe it would help if you told me _why_ you want to be an artist." She gestures to a chair, then folds her hands beneath her chin.

He clenches his jaw and screams internally. He had to go and be a decent human being for once, and look where it got him? All he wants is out of there and now he's going to be stuck there _forever_. Well, that''ll teach him not to lie.

Besides, how does he explain that the only reason he wants to be an artist is out of spite?

Sebastian debates the merits of sitting and talking over cutting and running. Mrs. Perkins, for all her faults as an art teacher, doesn't know Sebastian as the smug asshole who roams the halls of Dalton Academy. It might be nice if there was one person in the world who didn't. So he accepts her quiet invitation and sits down, takes a deep breath and capitulates. But not entirely. He can't come out and say, "I want to become an artist so I can prove that someone else, who happens to be an exceptional artist, isn't special at all." Now _that_ sounds like an asshole. He'll skate around the truth as closely as he can without touching it too much, just to see what she has to say.

"Why do I want to become an artist?" he repeats, like he would if he was about to bullshit his way through an oral report he didn't do. "Well, recently, I saw a drawing and thought, you know, I'd like to do … that."

_Lame_ …

"I see," Mrs. Perkins says. "That makes perfect sense. A lot of people enter into the world of art because they are moved by another person's work."

"Moved?" Sebastian barks on a forced laugh. _Why would she pick that exact word? Just … why? _"I wasn't … I wasn't moved. I didn't say moved. No, not moved. I was …"

"Envious?" she tries.

"No, no, I wouldn't say envious."

"But you admired it?"

"Yes," Sebastian says, giving in a little to truth. "I did. Very much."

"So, you decided to sign up for art class because you admired someone else's art, but now you're having trouble creating art of your own."

"Not exactly …" Sebastian thinks back on his drawing of Blaine. But then he remembers Kurt's sketch of him making that drawing, and how it was head and shoulders above his own. Then there's Kurt's sketch of Sebastian on the lacrosse field … and the other of the two of them kissing. His mind compares those to his pathetic pear-orange. "Yes," he amends. "Yes, exactly."

"It sounds to me like you may lack inspiration."

"Inspiration?"

"Yes. All of the skill in the world can only get you so far, Mr. Smythe. And as I said, I think your first efforts show promise. But it's what you put _into_ your art that makes it special, makes it yours, makes it come alive. Talent is a pursued interest. If you're willing to practice it, put in the time and the effort, then you'll be able to do it. But without inspiration, there is no passion, and you won't get much out of it. It won't be fun. You'll have no reason to continue. So, if you really want to be an artist, you're going to have to ask yourself - what are you passionate about? What _inspires_ you?"

Sebastian immediately thinks about Kurt's sketches and he feels a lump in his chest. He knows what inspires him, what's been inspiring him during this whole messed up "journey", even if he doesn't want to admit it.

_Well, shit._

* * *

For the next five days, Sebastian tries his hardest to get Kurt to talk to him, everything short of lying down in front of him while he's walking down the hallway, and the only reason he doesn't do that is because he knows Kurt will just walk over him. Those Doc Martens he wears look like they would be painful driving into his flank or his stomach.

But now that Sebastian knows for sure how he feels, he needs to get Kurt's attention. He needs to tell him.

And he needs to apologize.

Sebastian decides he has to do something that Kurt won't be able to ignore. He sits down at the table where Kurt usually eats his lunch. He takes out his sketch book and Kurt's notebook, opens them both up, and begins to draw. Except Sebastian isn't drawing just any picture. He's copying one of Kurt's precious sketches.

Kurt notices Sebastian drawing and smirks, ready to walk on by. But when Kurt sees his notebook open on the table where everyone can see, he storms over.

"What the _fuck_ are you doing, Smythe?"

"I'm drawing," Sebastian answers, not looking up.

"You're copying my stuff …" Kurt peeks over Sebastian's arm and pulls a face "… badly."

"Hey. I'm doing my best."

"Are you making fun of me?" Kurt asks, sour faced with his arms crossed over his chest.

"No!" Sebastian snaps, not accustomed to sounding sincere. "No," he repeats calmly. "I swear I'm not. Could you please … sit down a minute?" Sebastian slides the chair next to him out from under the table, but Kurt doesn't move, and Sebastian's afraid he'll lose his chance. "Please?"

Kurt stares at the empty chair, trying to guess Sebastian's angle, what he hopes to gain from this. When Kurt can't figure it out, he reluctantly takes a seat.

"You've got five minutes."

"That's very generous of you," Sebastian mutters under his breath.

Kurt settles into the chair, slightly slouched, legs spread, the picture of tactless decorum. "Well. Talk."

"Okay." Sebastian blows out a breath, his heart pounding. He'd hoped he'd get this far, but he didn't actually believe he would. He doesn't want to fuck it up. "I'm trying to copy your stuff because your art … inspires me."

The sentiment sounds vomit worthy when Sebastian hears it in his own voice, but it strikes something with Kurt. The cold glimmer in his eye thaws and he straightens in his seat.

Sebastian did it. He got Kurt's attention.

"Especially … especially this one."

Sebastian turns to the picture in the back of Kurt's notebook, the one Kurt drew of him and Sebastian kissing. Kurt glowers, his face twisting like he's about to rear back and hit him.

"I _knew_ you were messing with me!" He bolts up, but Sebastian grabs his jacket and yanks him back into his chair.

"I _like_ this one," Sebastian growls out between his teeth. "God, can't you learn to take a compliment?"

"I _can_," Kurt bites, "but you've never _given_ me a compliment before."

That's true, so Sebastian doesn't argue. "And it got me to thinking," he continues, "that I could do this, too. And I tried. Not because I wanted to, but because I …"

"Because you what?"

"Oh, God, don't make me say it." Sebastian rolls his head back on his neck and stares up at the sky, praying for some sort of divine intervention.

"If you want me to stay, you're going to have to convince me," Kurt says, not knowing what Sebastian's thinking in the slightest but dying to find out. "And that includes whatever it is you're not telling me."

Sebastian sighs. This is going to kill him. He just knows it. But he's come this far. He might as well go all the way. "I like your work," Sebastian admits. "Your work moves me. It's just … so damn good. And I'm sorry I looked at it without your permission, but I'm also glad that I did because it made me realize that I … kinda … _like_ you."

Kurt's eyes fly open, a well-placed _Go to hell!_ lingering on the tip of his tongue, waiting to be thrown. But he doesn't. He decides to see if there's anything else behind this before he reacts - the catch. Because if there's one person who can't even be mistaken for liking Kurt in all of Dalton, it's Sebastian. And now he claims he _likes_ Kurt? When the hell did that happen? Where was _he_?

"And maybe I'll never be good at drawing anything, but to tell you the truth, it's not all that important to me."

Kurt rolls his eyes and stands up again. "So why are you wasting my time, Smythe? I've never been fond of your jokes."

"This isn't a joke, which you'd know if you sat your ass down for longer than a minute." He grabs Kurt's wrist and drags him back to his seat a second time. "It's not important to _me_, but it's important to _you_. And I was kind of hoping … you'd tell me why."

Kurt chuckles nervously. "Yeah, right." He looks around, searching for someone videotaping them, or preparing to throw pig's blood on him. For a whole minute, he sits in stock silence, but when nothing particularly monumental happens, he starts dropping his guard. "For real?"

"For real."

"No joke? You want me to sit here and bore you with the details of why I'm an artist."

"Yes. Absolutely."

Kurt quirks an eyebrow. "You know I don't completely trust you."

"I get that."

"And I reserve the right to leave at any time."

"I understand."

Kurt waits a moment longer, waits for the punch because he assumes there's one coming. But the longer he waits, the longer he begins to believe that maybe Sebastian Smythe is being honest for once. No, Kurt doesn't entirely trust him, but he's willing to give it a try.

For a chance at making that last picture true, it's worth a shot.

"You know, Smythe," Kurt says, pulling his seat closer, a warm feeling growing in his chest when he hears Sebastian sigh with relief, "maybe there's hope for you yet."


	3. Love Imitates Art

**Kurt becomes jealous when he goes through Sebastian's sketch book and finds a present from an admirer.**

**This is basically just a short little "where are they now" one-shot that shows what Kurt and Sebastian are up to a few months later.**

"That's ridiculous … who the hell … do they even _know_ how to hold a pencil? Probably not. Probably so fucking distracted that they can't concentrate, doe-eyed little … like his eyes are even that shape … fucking blink every once in a while, clear the hearts from your eyes, God fucking dammit …"

Sebastian almost laughs, but he doesn't. He doesn't want to give himself away. Kurt's muttering woke Sebastian up a good fifteen minutes ago, but he hasn't let on. He feigned sleep to listen, his boyfriend's anger amusing to no end.

"And how the hell did they …? Just lets fucking whoever-never borrow his sketch book … probably feeding his ego … too late, shit for brains, it's already big enough …"

Sebastian raises an eyelid, curious what Kurt could be talking about. His sketch book? No one uses Sebastian's sketch book except him. Well, there was one time, but it wasn't that big a deal.

Peering over the pillows to Kurt's side of the bed, Sebastian doesn't see him right away, but he sure can hear him, getting progressively louder as he gets angrier.

Sebastian creeps to the edge of the mattress and finds Kurt sitting on the floor, cross-legged, with his sketch book in his lap – a leather bound one that Sebastian's mom bought Kurt over the semester break. Sebastian got one, too, the day she found out that not only was her son taking an art class (his mother had dabbled a bit herself back in college, felt very strongly that the arts are a must), but that he'd finally found himself a nice boyfriend.

After two months together, Sebastian had taken Kurt home to meet his folks. Sebastian's parents _adore_ Kurt, especially his mother. Apparently, she'd gone through what she called a _Sid and Nancy_ phase back in college. She wore a lot of denim and leather, dyed her hair platinum blonde, listened to a lot of British punk rock, and did a few other things that she almost tripped into admitting, but stopped herself just in the nick of time. She'd said that looking at Kurt, with his violet hair, his leather jacket, and his penchant for silver jewelry, brought back a lot of fond memories.

Considering the fact that Sebastian once judged Kurt based on his looks, had used the image Kurt projected as a reason to believe that Kurt wasn't worth his time, _that _was something Sebastian hadn't expected.

Sebastian can't see right away what's gotten Kurt riled up, but he manages to sneak a peek at the drawing Kurt is feverishly working on – a charcoal portrait of Sebastian from memory, one of the finest that Kurt has ever done. It's almost as breathtaking as that picture Kurt drew of the two of them kissing under the mistletoe.

Almost.

Though some of the sketches he's done recently – them making out on one of the sofas in the Warbler choir room, hiding in the alcove outside the mathematics wing, or making love in Sebastian's dorm room bed – are tied for that honor.

"What are you doin'?" Sebastian asks, deciding to reveal himself when Kurt tosses down his charcoal stick to grab another and Sebastian sees the state it's in – viciously indented from Kurt's furious strangling of the thing while he draws.

"Well, I was flipping through your sketch book, as is my right ..."

"As is your right ..." Sebastian agrees because that was one of Kurt's conditions for them dating. Sebastian had gone through Kurt's notebook, which was wrong. But he couldn't seem to stop sneaking peeks, which Kurt discovered he didn't mind so much anymore. But if Sebastian got free reign to look at Kurt's sketches whenever he wanted, Kurt got to have the same right over Sebastian's.

They'd even signed a contract to that effect.

"And I found this ..." Kurt flips Sebastian's sketch book open to a page with a pencil marking the spot. Inside, there's a line drawing of Sebastian's face – a decent likeness, but not as skilled technique-wise as Sebastian has become. And nowhere near as fabulous as Kurt's work. "I didn't know you had an admirer in that little rec center art class of yours."

"How do you know that _I_ didn't draw it?" Sebastian asks, moving in closer to rest his chin on Kurt's shoulder. Kurt doesn't shove him off when he does, which Sebastian finds encouraging.

At least Kurt's not pissed at _him_.

"_Please_. This is _totally_ not your style," Kurt scoffs with a curt gesture toward the picture. "They're using a fine point pen, not a pencil, which you _always_ use, _and_ they press too hard. It's minimalist, uneven, no shading, none of your signature drama ..." Sebastian smirks. Mrs. Perkins says that same thing about his work, that it has a certain _drama_ to it. That, and that he's addicted to shading. Nice to know that the two biggest artistic influences in his life agree on the same things about his work. "In fact, it looks like it was drawn by a five-year-old."

"You're close." Sebastian kisses Kurt's ear, mostly to annoy him.

"So, you're finally admitting you're immature?"

"No. I'm admitting that I didn't draw it. But a _ten_-year-old did. My cousin, Mike."

Sebastian feels Kurt gasp as he pecks kisses to his jaw, his hand smudging a shadow beneath Sebastian's chin sliding to a stop. "What?"

"A-ha. He borrowed my sketch book without asking, said he wanted to draw it for me special, but I think he just wanted to make sure _you'd_ see it. You know how shy he is about his work."

"_He_ did this?" Kurt asks, looking back at the drawing with a new appreciation.

"And you know how much he idolizes you."

"It's really good," Kurt continues, setting his own drawing aside to focus on this one, guilt replacing vengeance (and jealousy) in his chest.

"Yup. _Huge_ fan of yours. It's going to break his little heart to know that his idol thinks he's a failure."

Kurt gasps again, but this time indignantly. "Sebastian! Don't you _dare_!"

"Really?" Sebastian replies, a glimmer of mischief in his eyes.

"Really," Kurt says, the word sounding like a threat _and_ a promise.

"What will you give me not to completely shatter the dreams of a ten-year-old boy? One who absolutely _loves_ you and your work?"

Kurt rolls his eyes. He sets the sketch book aside, wipes his hands clean of charcoal, and climbs back up on the bed. "You're a rat, you know that, Smythe?" he says, pulling down his boyfriends sweat pants and straddling his legs.

"Yeah, well, I'm a rat about to receive a _phenomenal_ blow job."

"Says you," Kurt snickers, wasting no time sinking his mouth over Sebastian's cock.

"Well, you _are_ an artist." Sebastian moans, adjusting his pillows and making himself comfortable. If he has his way, this'll take a while. "Think of this as performance art."


End file.
